


Jeebiverse: Fate of Tamriel

by IagharTheAxe



Series: Warlord Jeebilus [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Argonians (Elder Scrolls), Dunmer (Elder Scrolls), Elder Scrolls Lore, Morrowind Main Quest, Oblivion Main Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-19 01:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29866968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IagharTheAxe/pseuds/IagharTheAxe
Summary: Set after the events of the Memoirs of Warlord Jeebilus, this pair of fics follows the events that occurred following the end of my Morrowind protagonist's playthrough from two different perspectives.The first account is from the perspective of my dunmer Oblivion character named Drelar Salvules, who witnesses Jeebilus's rise to power. The second account is told from the perspective of Warlord Jeebilus himself.Together, these differing accounts will tell the story of what happened during the events of Oblivion leading up to Skyrim in my personal elder scrolls universe based on Jeebilus. Hope you enjoy!
Series: Warlord Jeebilus [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2195844





	1. The Fallen Armiger

Foreword:

The reign of the Tribunal of Morrowind was ancient and glorious. For over three thousand years the dunmer people enjoyed security, prosperity and strength under the guidance of their living gods. In the minds of the faithful, the rule of the Temple was rightful and eternal. But what the people of Morrowind didn’t know, or perhaps couldn’t see, was that they had held on to a doomed order for far too long. Stasis had gripped every corner of the nation of Morrowind, allowing threats both new and old to gather strength. As prophecy decreed, It would be up to a single outlander to be both Morrowind’s savior, and its destroyer.

  
But everybody has heard the story of the fate-bound hero. While the masses cheer on the champion of change, the story of those who opposed him are often lost to history, and usually for good reason. But not this story. This is the tale of the Fallen Armiger - a man who rose from the ashes of a fallen order and forged his own legend. A dunmer named Drelar Salvules.

* * * *

Drelar Salvules was born in the capital city of Mournhold late in the 3rd Era to a High Ordinator and a Temple priestess. His family were wealthy and respected members of the Tribunal Temple. He was loved as a child and raised to become a devout and faithful member of the Tribunal Temple. His father trained him from a very young age to be a warrior and carry on the family tradition of enforcing the will of the Tribunal, while his mother read him sermons and scripture every night.  
While dutiful in his studies and training, Drelar always felt a burning passion for adventure, and dreamed of becoming a Buoyant Armiger and serving Lord Vivec as a wandering warrior. Once Drelar came of age he bade farewell to his proud parents and sailed towards Vvardenfell to undergo the pilgrim's path and to pledge himself as a hireling to the devout House Redoran.

  
Drelar grew stronger on the harsh island of Vvardenfell over the years, eventually overcoming the trials of the pilgrim’s path and becoming a full member of the Tribunal Temple. He worked tirelessly to rise in status in the Temple and House Redoran and to improve his skill as a fighter until he finally achieved his goal of becoming a Buoyant Armiger.

  
Drelar was thrilled to have accomplished his lifelong dream and excitedly accepted his station at Ghostgate to help contain the blight within Red Mountain. But it was nothing like what he’d been promised being an armiger would be like; instead of the stories of the old days where armigers would roam and quest to carry out Vivec’s will he was trapped in an endless and hopeless war against the blighted monstrosities pouring out of Red Mountain.

  
As the years began to slip by at Ghostgate and the situation became progressively worse Drelar’s faith in the Tribunal began to waver, and he eventually started to question why the strength of almighty almsivi was failing against the forces of Dagoth Ur. He was strictly reprimanded by his superior officer, a devout dunmer named Ulthis, after word got around that he was uttering such heretical thoughts out loud. Drelar was told that the influence of Sheogorath was damaging his mental strength and that he needed to strengthen his devotion to the Temple, if he didn’t want to be tried for heresy. He was angry at Ulthis, but ultimately his loyalty to the Temple prevailed and he forced the heretical questions from his mind.

  
Eventually word spread throughout Vvardenfell that someone had been named Nerevarine by the ashlander tribes. There were rumors that not only was this person an outlander, but that he was a beastfolk as well. The Order of Inquisition instructed all Temple members that this outlander was a heretic and that he should be killed on sight. The fact that he had already united the ashlander tribes had made him a very large threat to the power of Temple and the Great Houses.

  
While Drelar’s faith in the Tribunal was unshakeable, he had seen firsthand how hopeless the situation at Red Mountain was. He couldn’t help but hear a little voice in his head secretly hoping that this outlander may be the incarnation of Nerevar, come to save and unite the dunmer of Morrowind. But then he remembered how deplorable the ashlanders were in their profane worship of the Daedra; there could be no unity with those tribal savages. And so that little voice in his head was silenced.

  
It wasn’t much longer until it became official that the outlander who was named Nerevarine had now been named Hortator by the 3 great houses in Vvardenfell, including Redoran. Drelar was astonished at this development. How could his house turn on the Temple like this? He wasn’t surprised by the faithless Hlaalu or the reclusive Telvanni, but he expected more from Redoran. Soon he heard the heretic’s name for the first time: Warlord Jeebilus. And what’s more, he was an argonian, a lesser race. Surely an n’wah like him couldn’t be Nerevar Incarnate, even if the Nerevarine prophecy was true. How dare he take the name of Vivec’s fallen friend and companion!

  
But Drelar’s devout and faithful thoughts were constantly challenged; he saw every day the situation at Ghostgate. The Buoyant Armigers were spread thin, scouting missions became too dangerous to be carried out and the blight couldn’t be contained for much longer. How long until Dagoth Ur whispered to him in his dreams and compelled him to join the traitorous Sixth House? How long until the great ghostgate faltered? How long until he and his kinsmen, ashlander and great house alike, all succumbed to the blight?

  
Finally, the most belief shattering thing yet happened. Vivec himself named the outlander to be Nerevarine, and the only hope for Morrowind. Word was sent to the armigers to expect the Nerevarine to arrive at Ghostgate and to have scouting reports ready for him so he could enter Red Mountain alone.

  
And then that fateful day arrived: an argonian arrived at Ghostgate, armored in a fine enchanted cuirass made of the bones of an ancient creature, and an assortment of ebony and daedric armor. But most importantly, he wore on his left hand the moon-and-star, and on his right hand a massive gauntlet of dwemer make. He was truly the Nerevarine. The Warlord was to recover the lost tools of the profane dwemer craftlord and face the demon Dagoth Ur alone. He was destined to save the people of Morrowind in the name of the gods they had forgotten.

* * * *

He had done it.

Drelar looked up as the crimson haze of Red Mountain began to clear and the sky turned a clear blue for the first time in centuries. While he and his brothers in arms celebrated gladly that the demon Dagoth Ur was dead, Drelar was still deeply troubled. The Temple was over 3,000 years old. And yet, it hadn’t been the Tribunal who had saved their people. It was a beastfolk from the lowest rung of society. An outlander bearing the mark of the cruel daedra his ancestors had abandoned. Everything about it spelled disaster for the Tribunal faith.

  
Upon the cleansing of Red Mountain, the Buoyant Armigers were recalled to Vivec City. Drelar spent the next few years there carrying out his duties as an armiger and pondering the implications of the historical events he had been witness to. He continued to hear of Warlord Jeebilus’s exploits; the argonian seemed to have risen to the highest ranks of nearly every Imperial Guild while also earning the title of Archmagister of House Telvanni.  
The Nerevarine was universally hated by the ranking members of the great houses of Morrowind because of his continued disruption of slave plantations, but none of them dared to try and have him assassinated. He was loved by the people, and if it was discovered that he was killed by one of the Great Houses riots and unrest would erupt across Vvardenfell stronger than Red Mountain itself.

  
And that was assuming that any mere assassin could take out the Warlord. Drelar had never seen Warlord Jeebilus fight before, but he had seen him at ghostgate and caught glimpses of him when he visited Vivec on occasion. He was massive, horned and covered in Daedric plate armor. He wielded a flaming dwemeri sword and a gargantuan enchanted tower shield that he carried like it was nothing. If he wasn’t wielding that he carried a five-tipped spear of daedric origin on his back. Drelar couldn’t dream of attempting to take him on in a fight, it would be suicide.

  
Besides being impressed by him, Drelar didn’t know what to think of Warlord Jeebilus. He was of course extremely grateful that he had saved his people from the blight, but everything he had learned from the Temple and his upbringing told him that Jeebilus should be a subhuman heretic, worthy of little more than the lash of a whip or a painful death.

  
Many of his fellow armigers and ordinators did their best to incorporate the Nerevarine into their beliefs, praising him and almsivi in the same sentence in an attempt to salvage what little legitimacy was left in their faith. But what everyone knew and wouldn’t say was that they would have gladly executed him just a few years ago.

  
As his faith continued to be challenged, Drelar found himself indulging himself in reading forbidden books. When he was off duty he would disguise himself as a commoner and visit the foreign quarter where he browsed Jobasha’s Rare Books. He bought heretical and banned works, one of which stuck out to him in particular: The Progress of Truth.

  
This book compiled the beliefs of the Dissident Priests and their claims against the Temple. They claimed that the source of almsivi’s power was sorcerous, and not divine: gained from the very same profane source that gave Dagoth Ur his powers. They also spoke out against alleged corruption, self interest and love of authority that was held by the archcanon of the Temple and his ordinators.

  
Drelar knew plenty enough about that last part especially. There was no better example of a self righteous and self interested dunmer than his own High Ordinator of a father. Drelar came very close to accepting the truth presented to him in these works and renouncing his faith in almsivi, but the power of his childhood indoctrination was still too much for him to overcome. He knew of the good that the Tribunal had done for his people and he had undergone countless trials in the name of almsivi. Surely he couldn’t abandon all of that over a book? And no matter how powerful the heretic Warlord Jeebilus was, he was still nothing compared to the all knowing and all powerful Tribunal.

At least that was what Drelar thought.

It was on one violent but inevitable day that Drelar’s faith was truly and finally shattered.

* * * *

It wasn’t uncommon for the Nerevarine to visit Vivec. He was, after all, the archmage of the local chapter of the Mages Guild. But what was uncommon was his visit to Vivec’s palace. The god had informed his ordinators and armigers that his palace was always open to the incarnate, as a show of good faith, but that didn’t stop the whole thing from feeling just a little bit off. There was something in the way that the argonian marched up the grand staircase that didn’t sit well with Drelar.

  
He did his best to shrug the feeling off as baseless superstition and distracted himself by staring out at the beautiful sky; it was dusk, and the moons were just beginning to rise into the sky. He stared out peacefully, not knowing how deeply engulfed he was in the calm that came before the storm. It wasn’t long until he was abruptly pulled out of it. A fellow armiger ran to Drelar’s post in a panic, blabbering that the palace was under attack. Drelar and his fellow armigers took up their arms in a hurry and rushed up the Grand Palace staircase to protect their god.

They were too late.

Drelar and his fellow faithful warriors burst through the great door to the palace to see Warlord Jeebilus standing over the impaled corpse of Vivec, and surrounded by the corpses of a dozen high ordinators.

Drelar nearly slumped in his armor at the sight. The enormity of what he saw in front of him sent him into shock and denial. Jeebilus snarled at the group of warriors in front of him, warning them to let him go if they valued their lives.  
Drelar felt like he was in a bad dream; frozen and helpless while everything crumbled around him. He wanted to say or do something, anything, but all he could do was watch. His commanding officer, Ulthis, let out a cry of righteous fury in response to the Warlord’s warning and led the group in a charge against the godslayer.

  
They didn’t stand a chance. Jeebilus moved impossibly fast for the size of armor he wore. He had abandoned his five tipped spear, leaving it bloodied on the ground next to Vivec’s corpse. He now wielded his flaming dwemeri blade: Trueflame. The very blade that Nerevar himself had wielded when he led the chimeri people as their leader. How tragically ironic that it was now being used to slay the descendents of the chimer.

  
Drelar watched as Ulthis was cut down mercilessly, and saw how the blows of his comrades seemed to do no more than bounce off of the Warlord. Ordinator after ordinator and armiger after armiger were slaughtered. Their fine armor and able bodies broke like kwama eggs under the strength of Warlord Jeebilus. Drelar saw the gaping wounds of his comrades burned by flame: the strength of the fire enchantment on the ancient blade was indomitable; not even the ashborn dunmer could resist its fiery edge.  
It wasn’t long until Drelar was the only one of his comrades remaining. Jeebilus leapt forward at him, immediately putting him on the defensive. Drelar did his best to ward off his attacker with his glass shortsword and buckler, but he knew he was doomed. After a blinding flurry of thrusts, slashes and blocks were exchanged between the two Jeebilus landed a ferocious blow to Drelar’s buckler; shattering it and scorching him with a blast of magical fire.

Crying out in pain, Drelar staggered backwards. Jeebilus advanced, about to deal the killing blow when Drelar yelled for him to stop and threw his blade to the ground. He denounced his faith to the Tribunal before Warlord Jeebilus and begged for mercy.

The argonian paused in his assault, the snarl on his face softening.

The world slowed down once again for Drelar. The sudden silence and stillness as the killer of his god stood over him were more terrifying than fighting would ever be.

“So be it.” the argonian finally said, and with that Warlord Jeebilus cast his weapons to the ground and teleported away, never to be seen again by the people of Morrowind.

Drelar clambered to his feet in surprise and looked at the carnage surrounding him. The stench of gore and death was already overtaking what was once a sacred place and the shock and adrenaline from his near death experience were sending him into full flight mode. He forced his fear to the back of his mind, knowing he had to see if his Lord had survived the attack before he left. He made his way to where Vivec lay and knew instantly the truth.

There was no greater symbol for the death of Drelar’s faith than what he now saw. The subject of countless lifetimes of worship and praise lay literally slain before him. He had never experienced anything this painful or this confusing ever before and he felt a sudden surge of stress and panic. He had to get out, to escape, to get away from this. He turned away from his slain god and fled. He left the temple, stumbling down the massive staircase, unable to process what had just happened.

  
Suddenly the sound of armored boots pounding against the ground snapped him out of his stupor. Straight ahead of Drelar was what was left of Vivec’s garrison in a stampede headed straight for him. As the rest of the group charged their way around him and into the palace an ordinator stopped him and frantically asked Drelar what had occurred. Staring into the ordinator's mask that bore the face of Nerevar, Drelar couldn’t help but laugh a humorless laugh at the irony of the situation. The true spirit of Nerevar had just done the unspeakable. He simply told the ordinator to see for himself what had happened and continued his dazed retreat from the palace.

  
Drelar knew all of Morrowind was about to turn into a political and religious nightmare. Things were changing rapidly - ideologies and power structures were shifting too fast for the people of Morrowind to keep up. Chaos and bloodshed were inevitable. Knowing this, Drelar’s first thoughts were of his family, and he decided to return to Mournhold to find his parents and to warn them of what was to come.

* * * *

Drelar finally arrived in Mournhold to hear whispers that Almalexia was missing; she had failed to make a public appearance in many years. It seemed that the Nerevarine had also visited Mournhold in the past few years. Could he have slain Almalexia as well? And if he had, would it really matter anymore? You could hardly have a Tribunal of gods with only two.

  
Drelar walked down the familiar roads of his birthplace. The last time he had walked these roads he was a bright eyed youth full of faith and vigor. And now here was; broken, faithless and so very exhausted.  
He arrived at his childhood home, his parents surprised but delighted to see their son. They knew of his accomplished career in the Temple and House Redoran and welcomed him home proudly. This pride wouldn’t last long however.

  
Drelar told them that he had seen Vivec dead with his own eyes, and that the Tribunal were false gods who had lied about their divinity for millenium. The mood shifted instantly. Drelar’s parents, his father especially, were outraged and shocked to hear these words coming out of their son’s mouth, and accused him of being a liar and a heretic. His father told him that he had gone mad; that he had succumbed to Sheogorath of the House of Troubles and lost his sense of reality.  
Drelar was outraged at his father’s audacity. He had been there! He had seen it with his own eyes! How could his father be so foolish and delusional that he wouldn’t even trust his own son’s word over his blind faith.

  
This accumulating anger escalated the argument to a tipping point. Drelar’s own father drew his ebony scimitar on him, commanded him to take off his sacred armor of the Buoyant Armiger and said that if he ever saw him again he would kill him himself for his unforgivable and heretical lies. Drelar was dead to his father. His mother wept in the corner as he left angrily. His family and his religion were now dead to him as well.

  
Knowing that his homeland was only going to get worse in the months and years to come, Drelar abandoned it. There was nothing left for him there. He had dedicated his entire life, his entire being, to the Tribunal just to watch them be killed by an outlander, and a beastfolk at that. He now knew that it was all a lie, an ancient falsehood spread by vain mortals who fancied themselves as gods. Never again would he let himself be duped and indoctrinated. From that day forward, he would be the one to control his life. He would no longer devote himself to any cause, belief or ideology. Everything he did from here until his death would be dedicated to himself, and him alone.

  
Drelar travelled to Cyrodiil, it being the nearest province that wasn’t Black Marsh or Skyrim. He intended to get some work as a mercenary and use his ability as a travelling scout and spellsword to make a life for himself. However, this plan didn’t go quite as he imagined. He accidentally took a wrong turn and wandered into an abandoned fort where he was ambushed by robbers. While he was a very competent fighter, he didn’t stand a chance against twelve armed opponents who had the element of surprise. They beat him within an inch of his life and took everything he had; his glass shortsword, fine longbow and all of his gold.

  
Upon waking up from the beating, Drelar used what little restoration magic he knew to repair some of the damage done to him. He limped to the nearby city of Cheydinhal and entered, not as a noble-born warrior of the Temple, but as a worthless beggar. He turned to desperate measures to survive, taking any job he could. During this time he picked up the skills of a thief; he was already moderately stealthy from his time patrolling Red Mountain so it wasn’t difficult for him to learn how to snatch a coin purse or to break into a shop every now and then.

  
After years in and out of jail Drelar was approached by a member of the Thieves Guild who had taken notice of how he was struggling with his rogue thieving. They offered him a chance to join, telling him to travel to the Garden of Dareloth at midnight in the Imperial City. Drelar couldn’t afford to make the journey, so he stole some rations and then a horse from the stables just weeks after getting out of prison. After making it to the Imperial City and passing the entry trial of the Thieves Guild he became a full member.

  
As Drelar built up a stable enough income from fencing off his stolen goods and taking occasional commission jobs he could finally afford a few nice things. He got himself a bow and some arrows so he could hunt for animals and a shortsword so he could defend himself. He eventually took on the profession of adventuring by wandering around and raiding abandoned forts and ruins for treasure, this time a little more wary of bandits and robbers. He also fought in the arena for coin once he began to regain his strength.

  
Eventually Drelar’s travels brought him to the city of Skingrad, where he was tasked with freeing his fellow thief Theranis from prison and retrieving a book for the Gray Fox. After breaking into the castle and eventually retrieving the book he was approached by a wood elf named Glarthir while still in town. Glarthir appeared to be insane, and was convinced that there was a conspiracy set in place against him. He promised Drelar a hefty sum of coin for helping him uncover it. Although he knew Glarthir was crazy, Drelar still took the offer with the promise of gold to motivate him.

  
The next day Drelar was approached by the captain of the Skingrad guard. Drelar was quite worried, wondering if his recent break-in at castle Anvil’s Dungeon had been discovered. Fortunately though, his guild work was still unknown to the guards, however his involvement with Glarthir wasn’t.

  
The guard warned Drelar that Glarthir was insane and that it wasn’t worth doing what he asked, no matter the amount of gold he had been promised. Drelar was hardly one to listen to authority at this point, especially from a human, so he met Glarthir behind the chapel at midnight and accepted the task he was given.

  
Drelar spent the next few days spying on people for Glarthir, which he found ridiculous as it became increasingly obvious that there was no conspiracy. The gold however was too good to refuse. The little money making operation seemed to be going well for Drelar until the town guards began making problems for him. He knew that they were watching him, and while he had been careful not to approach Glarthir in public he knew it was only a matter of time before things got out of hand.

  
The next time Drelar met Glarthir at his house to get his payment, he carried out the most genius plan he had ever devised. After accepting his payment he slit Glarthir’s throat and placed the dagger in his dead hands to make it look like he killed himself. He took all of the gold from his house, earning his payment without having to go on any more ridiculous spying missions. Drelar left town as soon as possible, knowing there was a lot of heat on him. In a matter of weeks he had broken into a prison and committed a murder. The Thieves Guild wouldn’t have to know about that last part.

  
The next night as he slept in an inn along the road, Drelar was woken by a man in a black robe who called himself Lucien Lachance. The man introduced Drelar to the Dark Brotherhood and invited him to join their lovely little family. All Drelar had to do was take the Blade of Woe and murder an old rapist named Rufio who was hiding out in the middle of nowhere. Enchanted by the promise of killing lowlifes for wealth and enjoyment and having a powerful new family, Drelar gladly accepted the offer.  
Having forged these dark connections, Drelar could live comfortably again. Now that survival wasn’t an issue he could truly begin his quest for self actualization and begin gaining power for his own purposes, and not in service of some undeserving deity.  
His quest for power inevitably led him to the arcane arts. He became an associate of the Mages Guild so he could easily access training in destruction, illusion and alteration to help him in combat and in stealth.

  
On his quest to be allowed into the Arcane University, Drelar was ordered to retrieve a stolen wizard’s staff in the Imperial City to earn his recommendation from the guild hall in Bravil. However, instead of buying it back from the noble it had been sold to, he decided to try and steal it back. It went awry when the noble caught him and cornered him while his wife went and called the guards. Drelar had brought no weapons with him, not having planned on killing anyone so deep inside the massive city. But just because he was unarmed didn’t mean he was going to give up easily. He summoned a bright light with illusion magic to temporarily blind the noble and then began beating him with his fists to incapacitate him. It was at this moment that a pair of guards entered the home.

  
Drelar was charged with trespassing, attempted theft, assault and attempted murder and was promptly hauled off the Imperial City Prison. He lost all of the possessions he had worked so hard to regain and was forced to start from scratch all over again.  
As Drelar sat in his cell he faced a similar apotheosis to the one that Warlord Jeebilus himself had faced just a decade ago. And what a poetic coincidence that he happened to sit in the exact same cell that Jeebilus had when he had hit his lowest point.  
Drelar saw how his life and the world were a prison. No matter his level of devotion, he couldn’t have saved his people or his gods. No matter how genuine his love for his family had been, it wasn’t enough to save their relationship. No matter the wealth and privilege he had been born into, it had amounted to nothing in the end. Not even his skill with blade, bow and spell could compensate for his weakness or contend against the cold, uncaring world he lived in. And now here he sat, sentenced to serve many decades in prison over a stupid mistake.

  
What point was there in living on? He couldn’t escape from the Imperial City Prison, it was impossible. Neither his friends in the guild or his family in the Brotherhood would dare attempt a rescue. And even after he served his long sentence he would just return to a world doomed to chaos and hopelessness. Already he saw the crumbling strength of a once unstoppable empire. He knew of the turbulent political and religious landscape that had engulfed in his homeland that would only end in bloodshed. He could see the steady decline of stasis and order happening before his very eyes.

  
And although he would still be young by Dunmer standards by the time his sentence was served, he would return to the world even more weak and world weary than he already felt. It was in these dark moments that he seriously considered taking his own life.

  
But of course, fate had more in mind for Drelar Salvules. It was on one fateful night, as he sat alone and hopeless in the Imperial City Prison that Emperor Uriel Septim VII himself arrived at his cell and told him of the deeds that he would truly be remembered for.

The dragonfires had gone cold.

The gates of Oblivion were open.

And Drelar was chosen to stand against them.


	2. Fate of Tamriel

In his final days on Vvardenfell, Warlord Jeebilus felt the Hist of Black Marsh calling out to him stronger than ever before. They urged him to return to his ancestral homeland and protect its people. Although the threat the hist warned of was a mystery, the words of the prophet Eno Romari echoed in Jeebilus’s head, warning him of the impending Oblivion Crisis when the foul daedra would be free to roam and pillage Mundus. Jeebilus knew he could no longer remain in Morrowind.

Jeebilus had done plenty enough already to save and protect the dunmer; the very people who still enslaved and oppressed his fellow beastfolk. It would be hard to leave behind the life he had built for himself in Morrowind, but Jeebilus was no stranger to losing everything. It was time to visit the land of his ancestors, and perhaps finally find a true home for himself. But before he could leave Vvardenfell, there was some final business to attend to.

Jeebilus took a final visit to his home in Balmora. It was filled to the brim with priceless treasures and loot; spilling from chests and piling on top of the floor. He took a quick trip to the Mournhold museum and donated as many of his artifacts as he could; using Barilzar’s Mazed Band to teleport to the city quickly. He then purchased many chests and filled them with the remainder of his treasure, and cast the most powerful wards and locks as he could on them before hiding them away in an empty cave on a distant island east of the Ascadian Isles. Only a worthy thief or a very clever wizard would be able to get their hands on his hoard.

There were, however, a few items that Jeebilus held on to; he was going to need them for his final bit of business in Morrowind. He kept his suit of enchanted Daedric armor, the Spear of Bitter Mercy and his trusty shield and sword. This shield and sword were no normal weapons; on his left arm he carried Eleidon’s Ward, a gigantic tower shield that could heal him on command, and in his right hand he held Trueflame; the searing blade that Nerevar himself had used when he was Warlord of the chimer people. It only seemed fitting that Jeebilus use the weapon of Nerevar to finally avenge his betrayal at the hands of the Tribunal.

Before setting off towards Vivec, Jeebilus placed a mark on the southeastern shore of Vvardenfell, near a small boat that he would use to leave the island. With everything in place, Jeebilus commenced his march towards the last of the living false gods. 

* * * *

Jeebilus stood over the impaled corpse of Vivec, watching mournfully as the life drained from the once immortal man’s eyes. The god had put up a good fight, but in the end he had no chance of winning. Jeebilus was younger and stronger, while Vivec had grown stagnant and weak over his millenia long reign. 

For a moment Jeebilus felt a pang of regret - remembering the last time he had killed an unarmed man so long ago in an act of vengeance. Back then it certainly hadn’t been the right decision. Could he have made the same mistake again? Before Jeebilus could ponder the thought any further the palace doors behind him came swinging open. Vivec’s ordinators had caught up with him.

Jeebilus drew his sword and shield and marched forward. He slaughtered the holy soldiers coldly and dutifully; taking no joy in spilling their blood. He prepared to cast his recall spell as the last of the ordinators fell, but felt the spell inexplicably fizzle out. With a sinking feeling in his chest, Jeebilus realized that one of the ordinators had managed to cast a silence spell on him, temporarily preventing him from using magic. Soon the sound of boots pounding against the ground filled the air from outside the palace, and Jeebilus knew he had no choice but to fight.

The group that now approached Jeebilus was made up mostly of buoyant armigers instead of ordinators, as he could tell from the ornate glass armor they wore. Jeebilus gave the warriors a final warning to let him go if they valued their lives, but as he expected they ignored him and rushed forward, desperate to avenge their fallen god.

This group he slaughtered much like the first. The fire enchantment on his blade did much of the work - blasting his foes with destructive heat on top of the damage dealt by Trueflame’s sharp edge. Any blow targeted at Jeebilus would either bounce off of Eleidon’s Ward or land harmlessly against his enchanted daedric armor.

Jeebilus settled into the rhythm of combat effortlessly, slaying his opponents with ease until only one foe remained. Jeebilus leapt forward at the final glass clad armiger, and the two crossed blades, both unaware of how fated their duel was.

For on the sharp end of Warlord Jeebilus’s blade stood his exact opposite - Drelar Salvules, the future Champion of Cyrodiil; a dunmer with whom he had nothing in common, but was his fated equal. These two stood as the true embodiment of the opposing forces that Morrowind faced - faithful versus dissident, oppressor versus oppressed, stasis versus change.  
And while they may have been fated equals, the outcome of this battle had been decided long before it had begun. The status quo that existed in Morrowind had been doomed from its inception, and Drelar just happened to be around to see the end of it finally come. After a flurry of blows the armiger’s buckler was shattered and he was sent reeling towards the ground.

Jeebilus stood over the defeated armiger, ready to deal the final blow, when the dunmer did something that surprised him greatly. He threw aside his weapons, and instead of begging for mercy he cried out that he denounced the divinity of the Tribunal. Jeebilus’s sword arm froze in surprise as he listened to him cry out, and saw that the dunmer was declaring this to himself more than anyone. Perhaps there was more to this dunmer than he had assumed.

As Jeebilus looked into the pleading red eyes of the unarmed man before him he felt the snarl on his face soften. Enough blood had already been shed on this day, there was no need for any more. 

“So be it.” Jeebilus declared. He dropped his sword and shield to the ground, and sensing that the silence spell had worn off he teleported away. His business in Morrowind was finally complete.

* * * *

Warlord Jeebilus sat in his gently rocking boat, watching as he drifted away from the island he had become so familiar with. Just moments ago he had been standing in the grand palace of Vivec, surrounded by blood and death. There was no doubt that he would once again be hunted by the Temple, and he needed to keep a low profile if he was going to make it to Black Marsh without complication. His easily identifiable daedric armor had been sealed away with the rest of his treasure and he had left behind his weapons at the Grand Palace. 

After so many years of adventuring while armed to the teeth, Jeebilus felt strange travelling with nothing but the clothes on his back. He could have easily brought one of his many weapons from his collection with him, but he felt a strange compulsion to leave everything behind for this new chapter of his life.

At least his clothing was enchanted, and he could always summon a bound weapon, but that did little to comfort Jeebilus. His clothes had been gifted to him by Caius Cosades and would only help him in situations that required stealth and subtlety, things that Warlord Jeebilus was very much not comfortable with. Meanwhile a bound weapon could only be used for so long and would not be reliable in a drawn out battle. It appeared that stealth would be his best option for the remainder of this journey.

It was only a few days' journey for Jeebilus to arrive at Morrowind’s mainland by boat. The real journey would be getting through the hostile landmass still standing between him and Black Marsh. He travelled all night every day for weeks on end, stopping only to hunt and rest during the day. 

The longer Jeebilus spent travelling away from Vvardenfell, the more he felt himself growing disconnected from its people. He still wore the moon-and-star on his hand, as a keepsake of an important time in his life, but he and Azura never spoke. Perhaps he had already served his purpose to the Daedra. Besides, his legendary deeds had never been done in her name, and they certainly hadn’t been done for the glory of the Dunmer people.

In hindsight, Jeebilus’s deeds began to seem like luck; not luck in that he accomplished them but luck in that he was put in the scenario that he had no choice but to accomplish them. He hadn’t chosen to be born to uncertain parents on a certain date. He hadn’t chosen to be in the Imperial City prison at the exact time Uriel VII was looking for someone to plant in Vvardenfell. He hadn’t chosen to be chosen. And yet here he was, the supposed incarnate who had fulfilled his destiny by saving the people of Morrowind. Had he really been in control? Where was the line that separated the will of the gods and his own?

But that was his old way of thinking; always telling himself that he wasn’t in control. He was Warlord Jeebilus now, legendary warrior, master of his own fate. Right?

This contradiction always made Jeebilus angry. Had he just been a tool of Azura? A tool of the Empire? When Dagoth Ur asked him this question he told him that he was a self willed adventurer, but did he truly believe that? 

...Yes. Of course he did. Sure, Uriel VII ordered his release. Sure, Azura gave him her blessing. And of course, he had help along his journey. But he did what he did because he wanted to. Because it was the right thing to do. He didn’t just fulfill the prophecies as if he was acting out a script on the pages of the elder scrolls - he had truly become the master of his own fate.

This eventual conclusion always comforted Jeebilus, but deep down he knew it didn’t matter what his motives were in the grand scheme of things. What history would remember were his actions. The prophecy preceding the events of his life cared not why he fulfilled his role, only that he did. 

When Jeebilus views his life and accomplishments from a neutral, literal perspective it really seems quite simple: 

The dunmer needed unity which was impossible under the rule of the false gods of the Tribunal, who were in many ways directly responsible for the threats that plagued Morrowind.

And what Jeebilus had needed was a chance to redeem himself of his past sins and to protect the innocent so that nobody would suffer like he had. It just so happened that those two needs coincided. 

And perhaps underneath his noble intentions there was also ambition and a lust for power, but it was a healthy lust for power. After leading a life of weakness and poverty, it was very difficult for Jeebilus to not overindulge himself in his newfound wealth and strength, but at the end of the day he always made sure to put them to good use. He was a protector, not a destroyer.

Well, that’s what he told himself anyway. Who was he protecting when he impaled the last of the Tribunal upon his spear? Killing Vivec had been the antithesis of protection; it was pure, bloody revenge, just like the revenge he had sought against the man who had murdered his mentor so long ago; the act that had driven him down the dark and evil path which had landed him in the Imperial City Prison in the first place. 

Perhaps it was the spirit of Nerevar that drove him to commit such a bloody act, but Jeebilus hadn’t needed the spirit of Nerevar, nor the vengeful anger of Azura to drive him to murder Vivec.

It was many things that made him do it.

It was every time he saw a fellow beastfolk laboring under the whip of the dunmer.

It was every time a “holy” member of the Temple eyed him with disdain and hatred even after he had saved them from the blight.

It was in the Ministry of Truth where dissidents disappeared for daring to speak the truth.

It was in the mad eyes of Almalexia as she tried to murder Jeebilus, just like she had murdered Nerevar.

The Tribunal were never worthy of being gods. No mortal was. 

The dunmer would be lost without their Tribunal and the entire nation of Morrowind would be plunged into religious and political chaos. It couldn’t be helped. But it was a long time coming; an inevitability that in the long run would make them better as a people.

Jeebilus saw already the future of the dunmer people. It was in the pleading eyes of that fallen armiger whose life he had spared. All he could hope for was that that look would be shared by all Dunmer people soon enough; the look of shock when they realized they had been misled and duped for centuries. Whatever happened, it was no longer his problem anyway. He had already done plenty enough for Morrowind. 

* * * *

Upon arriving in Black Marsh Jeebilus found that many argonians had also been called back. It was here that he communed with the Hist for the first time, causing his scales to darken and more horns to grow on his head. Even though Jeebilus was now in the home of his ancestors and finally connected to the Hist he still didn’t feel at home. He only spoke a tiny bit of Jel* from his time with other Argonians as a beggar child and their customs and culture were completely foreign to him. Jeebilus grew saddened by his disconnect from his own people, and spent many sleepless nights struggling with his identity. He had spent so much time saving the very elves who enslaved and oppressed his own people. Who did he belong to? Why did Azura choose him, a racial enemy of the Dunmer people, to be their savior?

Over the years, Jeebilus witnessed the rise of the An-Xileel party; fervently anti imperial and nationalistic. To some degree he sympathized with their cause, knowing first hand the scope of the injustice against his people that was being tolerated by the Empire and carried out by the dunmer. But he also knew that Dagoth Ur likely would have subjected all of Tamriel to the blight if not for the Empire’s intervention. To make matters even more complicated, Jeebilus was closely entwined with the blades and had risen to the rank of Knight of the Imperial Dragon on Vvardenfell. In the end he didn’t feel like he truly belonged to either group; Empire or An-Xileel.

This feeling extended beyond political groups. Jeebilus was an outsider no matter where he went. There was no group of people that he truly belonged to, despite his heroic actions and legendary legacy. After walking so many paths in his life, and seeing the paths of so many others, he found himself lacking the convictions that so many held. He didn’t care about childish things such as wealth, glory and power nor superficial things like his race or his nation. To him, everything was just a turning wheel where nobody was really in control; everyone victims to the whims of causality, fighting endlessly over meaningless desires and conflicting ideas.

Jeebilus often found himself going down this depressing line of thought, and it began to worry him. He was still middle aged by normal argonian standards, but with the divine disease still in him he was doomed to live forever, impervious to age. He couldn’t allow himself to become disconnected and uninterested like so many other powerful entities had before him. He was still immensely powerful; a legendary hero who rose to near god status himself, but underneath it all he was still just a person, and that was something he could never let himself lose.  
*the argonian language  
What Jeebilus needed was another fresh start. He devoted himself not to growing his power, not to chasing base pleasures, not to an empire or a cult or a political party, but to people. He travelled the land of Black Marsh, getting to know the culture and the people he had never experienced. He journeyed much like he had in Vvardenfell, but not as an opportunistic adventurer, not as the incarnate chosen by prophecy, and most certainly not as a Warlord; but as a humble argonian, trying to use what power he had for good.

But as the trend is in Jeebilus’s life and in all things; stasis never lasts. After spending only 6 peaceful years in Black Marsh Jeebilus was forced to take up the art of war once again. The dragonfires in the Imperial City had gone cold and the forces of Mehrunes Dagon came pouring out all across Tamriel. The Oblivion Crisis had begun.

Jeebilus had no choice but to join the ranks of the An-Xileel and use his skills as a warrior to defend Black Marsh from the Daedra. The Hist began changing the content of their sap to make the argonians grow in size and strength and sending them almost into a frenzy. Jeebilus was already incredibly powerful, but when he took this altered Hist sap he quite literally became a force of nature.

Joining the rank and file forces of an army was a surprisingly perplexing experience to Jeebilus. He had always fought alone or with a single companion, never in a combined force. However, he was still miles beyond the ability of any of his brothers in arms and it didn’t go unnoticed. He was promoted quickly after displaying his skill in the early battles of the Oblivion Crisis.

At the height of the crisis in Black Marsh, Warlord Jeebilus was on the front lines of the argonian invasion of Oblivion. He stood at the forefront as him and his egg siblings flooded into a great gate. They fought their way into the Deadlands fueled by the altered hist sap and decimating the daedric forces. So powerful were the argonians that the daedra were forced to close the gate, an unheard of event in the Oblivion Crisis.

Seeing that the gate was going to close, the argonian forces had no choice but to retreat. Taking advantage of the retreat, the daedra pressed their attack, casting fireballs and shooting arrows at the backs of the retreating force.

Jeebilus continued to fight with his blade and his shield, single handedly defending their flank from pursuing daedra. The daedra noticed Jeebilus’s efforts and singled him out. As the daedra began a final push against the retreating invaders, Jeebilus and the last of the argonian forces made a mad dash for the portal that would take them home. Jeebilus watched as the portal began to crumble and falter and felt something he hadn’t experienced in many years… fear.. He froze as the portal hopelessly crumbled to the ground before him.

Jeebilus turned to face the army before him, the fear in him slowly turning into fire. If he was going to die here, he was going to do so taking down as many of these daedric bastards as he could with him.

Jeebilus doesn’t know how long he fought. It could have been days, weeks, even months. All he knows is that he slaughtered countless hundreds of daedra, fighting long after his comrades fell. He fought tirelessly for as long as he could, his already great skill enhanced by Hist sap, but his efforts were doomed. Every daedra he killed would eventually generate a new physical form and return to fight again.

Jeebilus was more exhausted and battered than he had ever been before in his life. His shield had been bludgeoned into an unrecognizable hunk attached to his arm and his blade grew dull from its continued use. He kept pushing and pushing, refusing to relent until he began to slip and his enemies gradually and inevitably wore him down.

As Jeebilus succumbed to his wounds, Lord Dagon himself took notice of his talent for dealing death and ordered his minions to spare him, something very unlike the Prince of Destruction. Jeebilus was imprisoned and kept as a plaything for 200 years, subjected to endless torture and forced to fight for Dagon’s entertainment just like the cruel imperial guard Sauvo had done to Jeebilus in Bravil during his youth. Only this time, it was much, much worse.

Jeebilus would likely have faced an eternity of imprisonment in the deadlands, if not for the intervention of an unlikely ally. Drelar Salvules, the fallen armiger who had become the Champion of Cyrodiil, had mantled Sheogorath after ending the Oblivion Crisis and becoming the Champion of Cyrodiil.

In a rare moment of sanity, the new Sheogorath decided he needed to rescue Jeebilus, remembering the mercy he had shown him in Vivec’s Palace so many years ago. 

Sheogorath devised a most genius plan. There was a cult of Dagon worshippers who had created a sigil stone in southern High Rock. They had been kidnapping innocents and planned on sending them into the Deadlands as an offering of prisoners and playthings for Dagon to torture and kill in hopes of gaining his favor. 

Sheogorath chose a group of his most loyal and insane subjects residing in the Shivering Isles and sent them on a mission in his name. They were to allow themselves to be captured by the cult to Dagon and offered to him in their ritual. But there would be a twist, as there always is with the Prince of Madness.

On the day that Sheogorath’s followers were to be offered to Dagon, he disguised himself as a cultist and stealthily gave tiny forks to each of his undercover minions. To his favorite follower, a particularly mad orc named Orgnarak, he gave a tiny spoon. These small trinkets could be easily concealed in the palms of the prisoners. He also made sure that the temporary portal the cultists had prepared would open near where Jeebilus was currently imprisoned instead of its original opening point.

The undercover offerings were taken to be imprisoned in the Deadlands and brought to the same tower that Jeebilus was held in. When the prisoners were locked in their cages and doomed to be maimed to death for Dagon’s pleasure they activated the daedric enchantments on their tiny utensils; the forks turned into powerful destruction staves and Orgnarak’s spoon turned into a massive hammer. Orgnarak took the hammer and shattered the door to his cage with it. After freeing all of the mortals in the prison with the hammer, including Jeebilus, they escaped their tower and fled towards the Oblivion gate that would lead them back to Tamriel. 

Meanwhile, Sheogorath made sure that the portal stayed open on his end. He spent all day causing all kinds of mayhem for the cultists, using wabbajack to wreak havoc on them. In the chaos the cultists were forced away from the sigil stone maintaining the temporary gate between the Deadlands and Tamriel. His undercover subjects would only have a matter of days at most to get back to the portal; permanent gates of Oblivion could not be sustained after Martin’s sacrifice at the end of the Third Era. 

As Jeebilus’s motley crew of rescuers charged out of the portal and back to Mundus they were pursued by daedra; a host of dremora and xivilai managed to get through the portal right on their tail. Before any more daedra could burst out of the portal Sheogorath shattered the sigil stone maintaining the liminal bridge between realms and transported his followers and Jeebilus to the safety of the Shivering Isles. Furious at the cultists' idiocy, the daedra who were now stuck on Mundus angrily slaughtered the cultists who had sent the undercover offerings into the deadlands. A fitting end for those worshipping a prince who had caused so much death.

* * * *

Jeebilus and Drelar, or Sheogorath, had a most touching reunion in the Shivering Isles, this time as loose allies instead of religious enemies. Jeebilus was crazed and half mad himself after spending 200 years in the Deadlands, and Sheogorath considered letting him stay in the Shivering Isles where he would be free to be as mad as he wanted. But upon seeing the moon-and-star still upon Jeebilus’s hand, and remembering the great and heroic life he led he knew that there were more powerful forces at play with this argonian. He couldn’t keep him here.

He was called ‘Warlord’ Jeebilus back in the day, was he not? Well there was currently a war happening in Skyrim, so why not send him there? As was Sheogorath’s way, you could never know if he would help you or hinder you. Drelar’s predecessor was infamous for his unpredictability and untrustworthiness which had originally earned his place in the House of Troubles in the Tribunal pantheon. So it was really no surprise that after going to such great lengths to save Warlord Jeebilus, Sheogorath decided to drop him in the middle of an Imperial ambush against a group of Stormcloak rebels on Skyrim’s southern border to kick start his journey back into the mortal realm.

The weak and disoriented Jeebilus was swiftly captured in the ambush and taken to the nearby town of Helgen for his execution. Jeebilus was helpless and stood no chance of surviving, but fate once again had more in store for him. As it was written in the lost prophecies of the Nerevarine, the incarnate would be an outlander, far star marked and dragon-born.

There was another prophecy, one still unfulfilled, that called for the last dragonborn to save all of Tamriel. And who better to play the hero this time?


End file.
